


Control

by rochelleechidna



Series: Domestic Ishtars [3]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Bad Touch, Blow Jobs, Control Issues, Feelings Realization, Gen, M/M, Mental Anguish, Sins of the Father, Thiefshipping, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:01:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28757745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rochelleechidna/pseuds/rochelleechidna
Summary: The guise of cool, calm and composed is what Malik seeks his entire life - until he realises he's never been in command at all.
Relationships: Yami Bakura/Malik Ishtar
Series: Domestic Ishtars [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1721830
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> New year, new round of fics - seemed only fitting that we start off once again with an entry for this self-indulgent series! There's still a lot I'd love to tinker with in this one, but I know if I don't publish it now it'll never get published haha As always, the events depicted fit into the series as a whole - hence the time skips and references to events that may or may not have been shown in other fics. I've actually planned out a lot for this series and hope to add more entries as the year goes on. In the meantime, enjoy :)

Not even two months after the Initiation and its long recovery, Malik is back at his studies as if nothing has changed. At least, that’s the way it seems Lord Ishtar would prefer life to continue.

“Posture. Back straight. Chin up.”

A not-so-soft _thwack_ hits the muscles along Malik’s shoulders, right where the still-fresh scars on his back begin. Malik lets out a groan at the contact, but obeys his father regardless.

“It _hurts.”_

Malik tries to instill the most pathos into his voice through gritted teeth, hoping it is enough to let up on Lord Ishtar’s commands. But his father must not have heard the words escape Malik’s mouth, for the stern man doesn’t move from his position behind him. A long shadow is cast on the stone wall before Malik, joined by one of his own – a curiously larger-than-life silhouette that, with the flick of a flame, somehow makes Malik seem taller and brawnier and wilder in his movements, despite being perfectly still.

Malik disregards the twinge of **Insanity** that floods his mind, and his senses return to his surroundings.

He is standing in the middle of a darkened room, lit only by a few candles on a nearby table. There is a stack of clay dishes atop his blond hair, and Malik knows if even one falls to the sands that there will be severe punishment – more likely than not in the form of a beating directed at Rishid. And while Malik can’t quite forgive the older boy for abandoning him as he was tied down and mutilated to fulfill his family’s destiny… Malik isn’t too thrilled by the idea of _intentionally_ causing his brother harm.

Malik ignores the sense of **Betrayal** that runs through and leaves his body within the span of two seconds.

He and Lord Ishtar have been at this for an hour, and the end is nowhere in sight. The scars on Malik’s back _do_ genuinely sting from keeping in one position for so long, but the slight tremor in his voice and faint wetness on his long lashes are all an act – a skill that comes very easily to Malik now, he’s realised.

As the first-born son, Malik is used to getting his way. But ever since the agony he faced during the Initiation, he not only expects it but _insists_ upon it. It seems the one perk of undergoing unspeakable torture is having others at his beck and call to fulfill whatever desire he wishes. Whether it is Rishid with his head held low or his sister with her averted gaze or any number of lesser servants, the Ishtar heir apparent has them all in the palm of his hand.

Somehow, Malik’s father is the only one immune to his charms.

“It will hurt _more_ if you don’t stand straight.” Lord Ishtar, like always, barks his words. Then in a softer voice, the change in tone barely discernible— _“Trust me.”_

It’s the most open Malik has ever heard his father. His father who has never referred to his biological son by name except for a handful of times. His father who didn’t bat an eye or shed a single tear at having to cut into his own flesh and blood. His father who so rarely spends any time with Malik. Whether it is monthly lessons in posture, Middle Egyptian or how to recreate the ancient prophecy to one day lay upon Malik’s own son’s back, any brief interactions between the two are moments like these – pupil and student, master and supplicant… never father and son. 

Yet for one brief moment, Malik can hear a familiar break in Lord Ishtar's voice – and the boy nearly flings himself into his father’s arms for some semblance of comfort over their shared trauma.

“Cease your tears. No member of the Ishtar clan will abide by a leader who allows his emotions to get the better of him.”

Any semblance of nicety in Lord Ishtar’s voice is replaced by its usual gruffness. Without seeing the man’s face, Malik can _feel_ his intense eyes stare him down. The scrutiny travels all along his back, as if it’s being cut into a million little pieces once more.

Even fully clothed and standing perfectly straight and doing exactly what he has been bred to do like countless before him, Malik feels it is somehow not enough. That _he_ is not enough, will never be enough. It is not only a lack of bodily autonomy – a phrase he learns years later in one of his dreaded therapy sessions – but also a lack of control over his whole situation, _his entire future._

An **Anger** bubbles in Malik’s core again, a **Desperation** that has been crawling under his skin since the Initiation – as if some primal urge was awoken that day, struggling to break free. But before he can protest his father’s words—

“You must _always_ be the one in control, Malik.”

Malik cannot recall a time before now when his father used his name. It makes sense, considering it was one given to him by his mother before her untimely death – no doubt sure to bring up painful memories. Yet in the utterance of that name is a strange reassurance, as if Lord Ishtar has somehow read his son’s mind.

“Manage your appearance, your behaviour, your words. This is the way. You must proudly bear the heritage of our family on your back and never falter from your path. Command how others see you… and you will be the strongest person in the room. Always a leader. Always on top.”

Only long after tragedy befalls their family will Malik realise that his father may just as well have been speaking to himself at this particular moment. But for now, Malik is just ten-years-old, and doesn’t quite parse through the irony of his father’s speech. Instead, he can only furrow his brow and lift his head higher in tepid defiance.

Malik feels a strong sense of **Hate** fill his chest, but he does not yet fully understand it. He washes away his pitiful act with a strong, commanding, almost sarcastic voice – yet another way he hates to admit that he and Lord Ishtar share a striking similarity – and smirks at the realisation that perhaps there is something he _can_ learn from his father.

“If what you say is true, _ab…_ Show me.”

* * *

Malik is fifteen-years-old when he finally realises that those scant moments spent one-on-one with his father may have served a purpose after all.

He and Rishid are in Florence, recruiting more allies to their – really, Malik’s – cause. The Italian city threatens to overwhelm them both at first with its onslaught of a culture not their own. But it is now the second week they’ve been staying in this hotel, and Malik is drawn away from his room by the sound of loud music down the street. Without Rishid’s knowledge, he slips out into the late autumn night in the lavender hoodie and tan khakis of which he’s grown fond in the last year.

As leader of the Ghouls, Malik so rarely affords himself the chance to step out like this – mostly because he has little desire to interact with people not worth his time, but also due to the Ishtar clan expectations placed upon his shoulders that he can never seem to shake no matter how far he runs. Even now, having spent years away from the tombs and his father’s influence, he can’t help hearing the clan’s prophecies ringing in his brain at every turn – competing with the cries of **Vindication** and **Frustration** that rear their head whenever Malik strays farther from his chosen path…

But, as always, Malik ignores those moments of **Hate** which fit his soul more easily than he’d care to admit. Tonight, Malik only wants to experience life from the other side.

He’s tried global cuisines and seen countless films and listened to an array of music and visited dozens of places that are all so varied in culture. So really, the club whose loud booms have drawn him out is no exception. It is late into the start of a long evening, and Malik’s unabashed confidence and charming, fake smile – as fake as one of the IDs he presents to the dubious bouncer – gets him inside with ease.

The music is far louder in here than he expected, but there’s an energy to the room that is instantly infectious. Malik makes his way along the walls, towards an area where the sweaty, half-drunk patrons aren’t as congregated. He eventually finds himself at the bar, which is more well-lit than the rest of the venue – there’s no point in Malik substituting his small, dark hotel room for a large, dark dance hall, he reasons. For now, he’s content to lean back and watch the young people – not as young as Malik, but far younger at heart – dance and hold each other close as upbeat song after upbeat song plays.

“More fun to join in than to watch, you know. Especially with how _you_ look.”

Malik rolls his eyes. Out of his periphery, he sees a dark-haired man – probably only a few years older than him – matching his position against the bar, a drink in hand. It’s not the first time Malik has heard comments like _that_ before. And although he can’t deny that the man is alluring on an aesthetic level, the smooth-talking comment is enough to set his nerves on high-alert all the same.

“If that’s an invitation to dance, I’ll have to pass.” Responding in near-perfect Italian, Malik smirks and reaches for the Rod – and only then remembers that he’s left it in the hotel room. Malik falters for all of a half-second before regaining his composure and straightening his back – his father’s long-ago lessons both a curse and a blessing. He faces the man head-on, catching hints of green in his shadowed eyes. Malik narrows his own and smiles with just his lips. “Buy me a drink. I won’t refuse that.”

Malik doesn’t quite know where _that_ came from, but it must do something for the other man – who immediately spins around and, in rapid Italian, orders the first drink that Malik points to.

“Amaretto and coke? You’re not worried about… how that comes off?”

“Should I be?”

Malik hides his genuine confusion as he takes the first sip. It’s more the overwhelming sweetness than the alcohol itself that makes him immediately feel the novel elation – which, as always, he masks behind piercing eyes and a head held high. His first taste of hard liquor… and he didn’t even have to pay for it.

“Dressed like you are, I doubt it.”

The conversation continues like that for a while – half-assed flirtations from the young Italian contrasted with Malik’s effortless rebuttals. He’s positive that this man thinks him older than he really is – and Malik isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol finally affecting him… but a part of **Himself** suddenly doesn’t mind being just _a little_ closer to his drinking companion.

The Italian has a bare arm splayed across the bar anyway, so Malik takes his opportunity without thinking twice. The near-childlike **Giddiness** that fills him at the sensation of skin-on-skin contact surely makes him blush. Not that anyone could see it on his cheeks in this crappy, dim light anyway. But Malik is pleasantly buzzed and too far gone to care, and a sudden **Lust** for more overtakes him as his hand trails up the other man’s bicep to cup his face. Likewise, the man brings his free hand around to lazily stroke up and down Malik’s side.

They stopped talking long ago, but they’re both acutely aware of how they’re saying more now than they had in the last forty minutes.

Gods, if this _is_ how Malik reacts after just a drink – or two, or three, he’s lost count by now – he’s grateful that the **Anxiety** that usually keeps his guard up can be released into a nice **Contentment,** even if just for the moment. Malik leans towards the Italian and lids his eyes – taking in the lovely sight of the man’s face, allowing his defenses to fall, about to do something he doesn’t care if he’d regret when—

“What’s up with your back, _caro?”_

Malik doesn’t even question where this sudden **Bravado** has come from until he feels a hand snaking under his shirt and trailing up – _too far up_ – his scarred back. Malik pushes himself away in a cold sweat and stumbles off of his seat, earning a few looks from nearby patrons. A sense of **Confusion** and **Revulsion** at being touched _there_ is all Malik can feel – and thank gods that, in his disorientation to find the exit, he hears a familiar voice.

“What have you dared to give a _child?”_ Malik turns – and is met by Rishid's hardened face. The man stares daggers at the advancing Italian, and then offers a look of concern towards Malik. “Master Malik… This isn’t you. We’re leaving. _Now.”_

The next thing Malik knows, he is sat back on his hotel room bed. It is early afternoon and the sun burns his eyes and his head hurts like hell – and a whimpering, pathetic **Desperation** for _something_ permeates his every thought.

The events of the previous evening fly back in Malik’s face. Oddly enough, Rishid seems less concerned by what happened in the club, and more anxious about what happened when they returned to the hotel and Malik nearly passed out – as if that loss of consciousness would have somehow been _worse._ But any memory gaps are filled in by Rishid in his usual, stoic monotone.

Like how Malik had to be literally carried back to the hotel on Rishid’s shoulders.

Like how Malik’s inebriation almost reached the point where a doctor would have been needed.

Like how Malik didn’t even realise that the damned Italian had nearly undone his hoodie and exposed—

Malik rushes to the bathroom and empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet after Rishid relays the entire tale. 

Oh, gods. They could have seen. _Anyone_ could have seen. How could he have trusted someone after so little time together? How could he have thought he could live a simple, mundane existence like everyone else? How could he have been so stupid as to let his guard down that easily? **Gods damned fucking idiot, we would have made them all pay if they dared to—**

That voice. That **Anger.** There’s a strange familiarity to it that Malik tries his best to ignore as he wipes his mouth clean and leans against the sink. He breathes heavy and stares at his face in the mirror – still the countenance of a king, but there’s a harshness in his eyes and a rigidity in his body language that betrays Malik’s state of mind. No matter how much Malik wills it, the mirror’s image doesn’t change with each passing second.

If only his father could see him now, how far he’s fallen…

Malik hardly remembers how his hand ended up so bloodied moments later. Malik barely registers Rishid approaching him after the mirror shatters into a million pieces. Malik scarcely recalls the sharp **Pain** along his back, as if the scars themselves are trying to break free. 

The only thing Malik’s mind knows in the instant after his flash of pure, unadulterated **Rage…** is how the previous night is the absolute last time that he will give into such base temptations and allow his guard down for anyone – not until the Pharaoh is good and dead.

He is determined. He is powerful. He is Malik fucking Ishtar. And like his father and ancestors before him… he is _always_ in control.

* * *

A couple months later – right before Malik enters his sixteenth year – there is an attack in Luxor. Because of the remoteness of his and Rishid’s location in a resort upon the Swiss Alps, the news reaches Malik a few days later.

And for the rest of the afternoon, Malik locks himself in his room and fights against the **Disappointment** and **Fear** and **Indignation** that courses through his body.

As time passes by slower than Malik would care to consider, tidbits of information trickle in from the low thrum of a television. That over 60 people were trapped in a tourist destination in Luxor and killed on the spot. That most of those killed heralded from the country in which he is currently staying. That the attack – the _massacre_ – was by an extremist group who felt they were owed something.

For a split second as he sits in the dark and ignores Rishid’s quiet pleas to come out, Malik begins to understand what motivated such violence. After all, the road he chose for **Himself** years ago is paved with blood – starting with his father’s death, continuing to those who died testing the fake god cards, culminating in the eventual rotting corpse of the fucking Pharaoh.

And yet… Malik recalls how close Luxor is to the damned tombs where he spent his youth. He remembers how – despite their monstrous displays of grandeur to commemorate rulers long dead – it is still a site of _his_ birthright which was used for this heinous attack. Most of all, Malik can’t avoid the creeping sensation of **Helplessness** at being so far away from his homeland – never imagining such an emotion would ever pervade his thoughts.

But what right did those fuckers have to come into _his_ home? What sense of smug entitlement did they have to use _his_ culture as a means to an end for their shitty agenda? Yes, Malik has sacrificed others in the name of his ultimate goal, but they were none of them innocent. To think that such a loss of life could be justified, that some were children, that they all had families—

Malik suddenly reaches for the hotel room’s phone and dials a number that he recalls easily from years before. There are only two rings before a woman’s lilting voice picks up on the other line.

“Secretary General’s office. Isis Ishtar speaking. How may I help you?” Malik almost forgets to hang up when he hears his sister's voice. For a moment, his breath hitches and he swears he feels Isis narrow her eyes and touch the gold around her neck out of habit. “Hello? Is there anyone—”

Isis is safe. Malik takes comfort in that fact as he finally comes to his senses and slams the phone back onto its holder. He lets out a half-sob half-laugh as the **Tension** finally releases in his body.

Those fuckers who dared mess with his homeland – who inadvertently screwed around with his sense of control – would pay dearly for their actions. Malik would put the world to rights no matter what.

As with all things in life, Malik knows he can turn his weakness into strength. He just has to bide his time, wait patiently – not lose **Himself** in the process…

* * *

While his siblings are off working at the museum one weekend when Malik is nineteen, he decides to try his own version of therapy to purge the **Darkness** from his mind.

It’s been a year since the first time Malik _willingly_ went into a psychiatrist’s office – a year of trying to condense an entire lifetime of suffering into short, digestible spurts for a doctor who only sees fit to give Malik pills and false promises of “this is something you can move past” and “look how far you’ve come after a few sessions.”

It’s all shit. Malik knows he’s no better today than he was a year ago.

If Malik _really_ told the quack how he’d grown up isolated from all of humanity to fulfill a dead king’s legacy, how he’d been abused for the first eleven years of his life, how he’d harbored the darkest parts of his soul which culminated in the death of his father and countless others, how the only solace he found these days was in the arms of a certain pale-skinned beauty who not only shared a similar anatomy but a mutual plan for vengeance—

No, it would be too much.

This goes beyond proving good intentions after Malik’s life of criminality. Long walks at night and lying for days on end in bed and punching his feelings out at the local gym aren’t cutting it anymore. His siblings – blessed as Malik is to have them – can’t fully understand the swath of emotions he holds tight against his ribcage.

Malik can barely help himself. So, he intends to take back control _over_ **Himself.**

He has been reading up on the benefits of meditation and how therapeutic it can be, especially for those like him who need some sort of core realignment. Pulling the blinds shut in his room and situating himself atop his pillows, Malik sits cross-legged in a pair of sweatpants and a loose tank top… and just breathes. He focuses on the sounds of the wind and birds outside, the soft thrum of the lights from the hallway – the slight rustling of covers by his side.

Malik smiles in his trance, knowing there is only one person who would dare get so close to him at such a vulnerable moment.

He breathes in and out beat by beat, expanding his lungs and his mind with each inhalation. With each exhale, he wills the **Anxiety** in his body to release, orders it to leave him the fuck alone, to allow him some semblance of peace. He imagines Bakura watching him from the side, taking in what Malik hopes is a softer, more amiable version of his face. A cool hand runs up and down Malik’s arm and shoulders, reassuring him that he’s doing a good job.

The caresses continue throughout the whole half-hour session. By the end, Malik expects to open his eyes and take in the sight of his partner in all of his brown-eyed, smirking glory. Yes, Malik has just allowed command of himself to slip, presented himself as defenseless – but if it’s _Bakura_ who was by his side the whole time… there is no one else he trusts more in this world.

So when he sees **Himself** smiling like a maniac instead… Malik’s carefully-constructed shields nearly break down.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The voice is _exactly_ like Malik’s – and it makes him fall with a shriek onto the hardwood floor with a not-so-soft _thud._ He scampers against the wall, lifting himself up. The **Other** just grins wide and stays seated on the bed, hugging a pillow close to **Himself.** “We know this won’t help, right? If anything, we’ve finally relaxed enough to _talk_ after so long apart.”

“I don’t give a shit about that _or_ your opinions. Go away. _Now.”_

Malik grits his teeth and speaks like a king to a peasant. The **Other** just lifts his head and barks with laughter, wild hair flowing around him as if gravity doesn’t exist. Malik stays plastered against the wall and regulates his breathing as he did for the past thirty minutes. Maybe if he closes his eyes and controls his reactions—

“We had our chance during Battle City. Could’ve ended it all then and there. But we had to be the _hero,_ didn’t we?” A dark shadow comes over the room at the morbid implication, and the **Other** stops his laughter. With a curious look towards Malik, that damned voice continues. “So, is this meditation shit supposed to make us _better?_ Or just easier to deal with?”

“It’s _supposed_ to get rid of you.”

 _“Psh._ Good luck with that. Who do you think is _really_ pulling the strings here?”

Finally, Malik pushes himself off the wall and walks with balled fists over to the bed. It really is like looking at a reflection as he stares down into his own eyes, unable to avert his gaze.

 _“I_ am. You’re not me.”

“For once, we agree on something.” When the **Other** stands, they are the same height – and Malik swears he feels more _seen_ than ever before. But when he next blinks, the **Other** is gone – while his voice remains. “Between us… _you’re worse.”_

When Rishid and Isis return home that evening, they find every mirror in the house broken – and their youngest brother in a similar state, as if he’s lost **Himself** over the course of a day.

* * *

A few hours after Malik impulsively throws the remainder of his medication in the toilet and watches it spiral into oblivion… Bakura comes back.

Malik is twenty-two, has grown his hair out past his shoulders, has resorted to wearing darker clothes and almost no gold… and Bakura is right there on his mattress wearing the same silly striped shirt under that fucking alluring trench coat.

Malik feels free for the first time in so long, like a weight has finally been lifted off his shoulders, as if he’s only just now realised that keeping **Himself** collected all the time is stressful and anxiety-inducing and requires an outlet… and, as usual, Bakura is there right when Malik needs him the most.

The white-haired waif has eluded Malik for months now, ever since the damned psychiatrist prescribed a much stronger dose of the poison that’s filled Malik’s body for too long. And whether out of boredom or shame – whose, Malik isn’t sure – Bakura has appeared only in small visits.

Malik almost can’t believe that Bakura is here _right now_ in his apartment, sat on the queen-size bed like he owns it with that beautiful, damned smirk plastered across his face.

“Malik, you—”

There isn’t enough time for Bakura to get more than a couple words out – or even do his usual routine of casting off his long black jacket – before Malik is straddling Bakura’s hips and pinning him to the soft duvet, ensuring no easy escape. Not that either man seems to _want_ that luxury.

“Don’t talk, Bakura… Just… let me…”

There’s a ferocity to Malik’s lips crashing against Bakura’s that reminds him of waves colliding upon a storm-tossed boat, of lightning striking a tree and setting it aflame with no hope of recourse for the impending catastrophe.

That’s all Malik’s life has been, hasn’t it? One giant fucking catastrophe after another. And at the center of it all is Malik himself. Bred for greatness. Never without a plan. Always seeking more. Fully in control—

Gods, that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Years of therapy and meds and interventions and another personality manifesting at the worst moments. And while making out with Bakura, while listening to the sweetest sounds escaping both their mouths, while pressing their bodies so close together that they might as well be one intertwined soul… Malik just solved all of his problems.

 _Fuck_ control.

What has control ever gotten Malik aside from pain – and the near-loss of the one person Malik actually gives a damn about? If the last six years have taught him anything, it’s that he was wrong to ever listen to his bastard of a father who brought nothing but misery to Malik’s cursed life.

Malik doesn’t realise he’s stopped assaulting Bakura’s mouth – wondering why he even thought of the old man _now_ of all times, gross – until Bakura cards a gentle hand through his blond hair.

“It’s been too long, Malik… What do you want?”

A million thoughts and no thoughts at all flood Malik’s mind. Even with how long this – whatever _this_ is – has been going on with Bakura, never once has either of them asked what the other would like in these compromising situations. Hell, hardly _anyone_ has ever asked that of Malik, period. The question is almost cute, and takes him aback for a few moments – before he leans down and whispers against bruised lips—

“Break me… _Love me._ ”

It’s not the exact words Malik expected to come out of his mouth – yet it’s the first honest-to-gods truth Malik has spoken in as long as he can remember.

For once, Malik allows himself to be led by Bakura – Bakura who usually comes equipped with some quip or snide remark that touches Malik’s very soul. Yet this time around, he merely half-smiles when their positions are reversed. Bakura leans down to cup Malik’s cheek with one hand while giving him the most gods-damned tender kiss in either of their lives.

This is so unlike anything they’ve done before… but Malik isn’t about to deny this moment to the love of his life.

Malik barely has time to think on that phrase and how he’s never considered its application to Bakura before now – not when the next several minutes make him forget all other thoughts, make his eyes roll back into his head, make him _really fucking glad_ he no longer has anyone around to question why he’s being so loud.

The distraction of a cool hand stroking over Malik’s covered chest soothes any remaining **Anxiety** in his body. That same hand effortlessly caresses Malik’s abs as a soft tongue tentatively asks – almost begs – for permission to enter. Malik can’t help but moan against Bakura’s mouth as his vest is opened and his shirt is lifted up and _oh gods_ the chill of that hand running over Malik’s warm skin and brushing over his now-exposed nipples is already doing wonders.

 _“Mhmm…_ Bakura…”

Malik groans as a slight friction builds between his and Bakura’s lower bodies, creating a pleasant tension in his stomach that travels right down to his groin. This is so reminiscent of their first encounter years ago, and Malik purrs at the memory – before Bakura replaces his crotch with his hand, and toys with the shameless bulge about to burst through Malik’s pants.

Unusual for them, neither speaks. Bakura pulls back and seems to consider how each slow movement up and down affects Malik’s laboured breathing. Not a second later, Bakura plants a comforting kiss to Malik’s open mouth and carefully rolls the pesky skinny jeans down Malik’s long legs. Malik sighs as his arousal hits the cold air of the room – before crying out as an unexpectedly warm tongue makes its way up Malik’s thighs, deliberately missing the mark. Bakura looks up at Malik with eyes that reveal nothing but adoration, and – again, unusually clothed himself – leans back up to capture Malik in an addictively slow lip lock.

“I missed you…”

“I hated being separated from you…”

“I don’t ever want us to be apart again…”

“I could never, Malik, I… I…”

Now the words come out as fierce as their kisses – until Bakura falters. And while Malik is surprisingly happy to let Bakura take control right now, he steals one more moment for himself to reassure the man who, over the last five years, has become Malik’s world.

“You don’t have to say it, _hayati…_ Show me.”

To prove his sincerity, Malik sits up and removes his vest and undershirt without a second thought – leaving nothing to the imagination. He’s been bare in front of Bakura countless times before, but never by himself – never on such unequal footing.

But that’s the thing – with him and Bakura, it’s _always_ equal. Even now with Malik allowing his supposed subservience to shine through, permitting command over his body to fall to another… it’s all done willingly, with his consent, on his terms.

And really, that’s all Malik’s ever wanted.

He nearly weeps at the realisation – before crying out as Bakura kisses him once more. Those soft lips and tongue leave a trail of saliva down Malik’s toned abs and over his flat stomach, while chilled fingers tease his sensitive sides. Malik closes his eyes and arches his back the farther down Bakura travels – and those hands grace the now-exposed scars with such a reverence that Malik can’t help the lewd sounds that leave his mouth.

 _“Goooods,_ Bakura… _Please…_ Touch me…”

As always, Bakura seems to know exactly what Malik wants. Within seconds, all his attention is focused on bringing Malik into an upright position so that his feet are plastered on the soft carpet. The sight of Bakura getting on his knees and spreading Malik’s legs and bringing his mouth closer to Malik’s arousal is almost too much – the addition of Bakura once more caressing his scars nearly sends him over the edge.

Malik is so lost in anticipation and pleasure that he almost misses the first lick that Bakura offers. It’s slow and exploratory and ends with that pink tongue tasting the very tip and _fuck_ this is so much better than the last time this happened to Malik. If only he’d allowed Bakura to do this before…

The loving, teasing motions continue, each time somehow better than the last. Brown eyes stare up at Malik, asking for permission to go further. Malik nods, but furrows his brow – despite the lovely tingle that travels up his spine from Bakura’s fingers.

“I want you to, Bakura… but… will you be able to— _ah!”_

Any thoughts about what Bakura can or can’t do vanish as soon as warm lips cover Malik and take him in inch by torturous inch. Neither breaks eye contact, watching each other in rapt enjoyment until Bakura fully reaches the base. Malik throws his head back with a loud whine – which only crescendos as Bakura finally moves. His fingers still run along every part of Malik’s back that they can reach, while Malik’s hands seek purchase within the silkiness of Bakura’s hair. Both their eyes are closed now, but the tenderness, the mutual respect, the absolute **Need** for Malik to let go and enjoy this moment that’s focused entirely on him while Bakura is in control… somehow, Malik has never felt more free.

The sensation below is warm and wet and slick and _perfect._ It’s like a secret message – meant only for Malik – is being sent from Bakura straight to Malik’s heart with each connection between their two bodies.

“Bakura… Oh, _gods… keep going…”_

Malik is babbling by now, he’s sure – he lost all sense of what he was thinking or saying long ago. He doesn’t even realise he’s fallen back onto the bed until one of Bakura’s hands spreads his legs wider and strokes an even more private area, leaving him on full display. Malik gasps and clings to the sheets – forceful enough that he’s sure the bed will have to be remade later. His legs tremble and unconsciously wrap around Bakura’s neck, pulling that hot mouth in deeper.

 _“Fuck,_ don’t stop, Bakura— Make me— _ahhhh!”_

Malik unleashes a series of curses and nonsense words when he feels Bakura hum around him. He near-screams as Bakura’s movements grow faster and his attention becomes more breath-takingly affectionate. Each second of pure pleasure threatens Malik’s sense of control, his sense of sanity… until Malik finally breaks.

 _“Yes, Bakura—_ Yes, yes, yes, yes— _Bakura!”_

It’s a climax second to none in Malik’s life. It lasts both forever and not long enough – and when he finally comes down from the massive high, he sees Bakura above him with an expression of genuine love. Malik doesn’t realise he’s shivering until Bakura wraps him up in his arms and kisses him with more passion than Malik has ever known. He expects to taste himself on Bakura’s lips, to feel the remnants of his orgasm against Bakura’s tongue… yet is unsurprised when he doesn’t.

They pull back after several relaxed minutes, but Malik feels his **Anxiety** rise when he takes in Bakura’s confused face.

“What?”

“You look…”

“I look…?”

Malik is suddenly petrified by **Fear.** He can’t lose **Himself** again. But just now, did he allow too much control to slip his grasp?…

His walls are about to build up to keep himself safe – when Bakura finally speaks.

“You finally look… like _you,_ Malik.”

It’s said so beautifully by such a beautiful man, and Malik curls into the warmth to hide his tears of **Relief.** Here, he is safe. Here, he is free. Here, he doesn’t have to be anyone else but… _himself._


End file.
